


Absence Makes The Heart

by Minuialeth75



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Pre-Slash, post-Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:16:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuialeth75/pseuds/Minuialeth75
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's ghost wasn't the one haunting the flat, it was John's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absence Makes The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for _tearsoftheponds_ as part of the johnlockchallenges gift exchange. My prompt was: "John is a ghost".
> 
> A/N: set post-Reichenbach Fall. I know that in the books, it took Sherlock three years to unravel Moriarty's web. I assumed it would take less time nowadays with the modern technology at Sherlock's disposal.

Sherlock knew John wouldn't be here, but that didn't prevent trepidation and anticipation from briefly running through his thinner frame as he went up the stairs leading to the flat. Mrs Hudson was out at this time, which was just as well because he didn't want to risk her seeing him without being prepared and have a heart attack or something equally inconvenient.  
He unlocked the door in one fluid movement, closing it behind him as soon as he was inside.

Well, that wasn't what he had expected.  
For one brief moment, his year away from London was erased and it seemed he was simply coming back from an errand at Bart's. The flat was unchanged. No sheets on the furniture, but not a lot of dust either. Someone was cleaning regularly. Mrs Hudson.

His brother had informed him that John was now residing in a small flat, despite the fact that the rent for Baker Street wouldn't have been a problem since Mycroft was taking care of it. It had been Sherlock's idea to ensure he would come back to _this_ flat once his dirty work was finished.  
He couldn't see himself living anywhere else at the time. It hadn't changed in a year, and it now had the added requirement of sharing it with John, always.  
But John had left, and in the end his idea had only prevented Mrs Hudson from searching for other tenants. Not that she had really felt like doing so if his brother was to be believed.

The boxes by the window apparently contained some of his scientific equipment. This meant that absolutely all his belongings were still here, down to the most basic pen. This was very puzzling. Didn't people generally kept a souvenir from a dear departed? He had thought John would take his violin or the skull with him, but both were still in their usual places.  
Some of the objects laying around weren't his only. They had been chosen by John, to be used by them _both_ , yet John hadn't taken any of them to his new place.  
Uneasiness crept along Sherlock's spine.  
He strode to the kitchen, absently noticing that the table looked forlorn without his lab equipment cluttering it. The cabinet's doors, wrenched open, revealed what he had anticipated they would: the box of the tea brand they both had agreed on to use for breakfast ages ago was in there, and next to it sat John's mug. 

Coming back to the living room, Sherlock saw that the hook where he always hanged his coat was empty and he started to hope.  
But when he opened the door to his own bedroom during the rest of his exploration, he was met by the slightly unsettling tableau of his coat, visibly dry-cleaned, and laid down on his bed like an empty shroud.

When Mycroft had told him that John was renting another flat, Sherlock had thought that it meant he had started to move on. But now he was beginning to wonder if his brother hadn't kept some facts to himself.  
The flat bore the signs of someone who wasn't mourning properly. It was a mausoleum, kept suspended in time as if John couldn't acknowledge the fact that Sherlock would never cross its threshold again. While it was very practical to find everything just as he had left it, it was also a bit worrisome for John's psychological state, especially as he was seeing that inept therapist again.

Sherlock took a deep breath and John's scent filled his nostrils once more. It had welcomed him as soon as he had entered the flat. He found himself inhaling again, like someone who had quit would second-hand cigarette smoke. He suspected that after a dozen months and Mrs Hudson's regular cleaning, John's smell wasn't that potent. He probably was able to detect it because he had been deprived of it for a long time.  
John's presence was everywhere in their home. The shape of his body indented in his armchair and Union Jack cushion, the tea stains left by his mug on both the coffee table and the desk, the patterns his slippers-clad shuffling feet had imprinted in the carpet morning after morning, and the superimposition of John's image everywhere he looked.  
Sherlock's ghost wasn't the one haunting the flat, it was John's.  
It was as if John's ghost had followed him back from every corner of the world his bloody crusade had taken him.

At first, he had regretted not taking the skull with him, though he had known its disappearance would have been noticeable, at least to John. The skull would have acted as a receptacle for his thoughts as it had dutifully done for years. But then it had dawned on him that this function had been transferred to John for quite a while, so he took to talking to him instead, like he did when John was annoyingly absent from the flat. Yet it wasn't the same, because he knew John wasn't about to come back from his work at the clinic, or from Tesco with groceries. Contrarily to what he often told John, he needed to bounce ideas off him, he needed his input, he needed him being here at some point. His subconscious knew that he wasn't going to see John any time soon, so the one-way conversation had rapidly become rather pointless. But still he had persevered. He had endeavoured to guess what John would say – in that instance mostly disapproval was cast at him – how he would react. That was how John's ghost was born. 

When he had made the choice to fake his suicide, Sherlock had been aware that when he came back – not doing so was inconceivable – it would probably be the test that John's steadfast friendship wouldn't withstand. His grasp on everything related to sentiment was rather poor but he _knew_ John, and he had foreseen that he wouldn't easily forgive – if at all – having been left in the dark about the whole scheme. But at the moment, the fact that John would _live_ had superseded every other considerations.

What Sherlock hadn't anticipated was how much he would miss John, and not only for his marksman skills or the knack he had to be a catalyst of his brightest ideas. John had slowly but surely become the anchor that kept him from going adrift and going too far, be it inside his mind or with his actions.  
John had also somehow managed to become his moral compass. Loath as he was to admit it, Sherlock had realised that he had taken to try and avoid John's 'bit not good', attempting instead to generate some kind of approval. He did it for John only, though. He didn't care about others' opinions. Only John's mattered.

Sherlock had always known that he had changed John's life for the better, which had been so far a sure way of keeping him by his side. A year without John's presence had demonstrated that the change had apparently also occurred the other way around. Annoyingly so, it seemed that he required John's presence to feel some sort of contentment he hadn't been aware he was missing before.  
Mycroft had been partially right: caring was indeed not an advantage, especially not when the object of your care was not by your side.

He almost reached for his violin case but no, it would have been delaying the inevitable. He had taken the first flight he could find to see John as fast as possible. Lingering in the flat would be somewhat cowardly.  
Now that he had seen his home again, he felt a little bit more like himself and could proceed with telling – showing – John that he was still alive. His mouth twisted. He was under no illusion that this was going to be pleasant.  
He needed... Sherlock stared at his locked bedroom door, running a hand through his now short dark curls.  
A few seconds later, he had donned his coat. He denied the possibility that he could consider that piece of cloth like some sort of armour. That would have been ridiculously superstitious.  
If he was lucky, John would avoid his nose and teeth when punching him.

____________________________________________________

His ghost's warm fingers were on his bloodied face.

'For God's sake Sherlock, stop fidgeting!'  
John's voice was gruff and the hand holding the antiseptic-soaked gauze was shaking slightly.

A solid punch on his left cheekbone. It had gone as expected, excepted for John looking even more hollow than when he had first seen him at Bart's. This wasn't an expression he wanted to see on John's face ever again. It was wrong, and he was the one responsible for it.  
He was going to have a word with Mycroft who had told him that John was coping. Hadn't he noticed that John's light was _gone_?

John had more or less dragged him to what seemed to be the only chair in his flat and ordered him to stay put as he went to retrieve his doctor's bag. He had locked the flat's door and kept the key with him. He still had it in his pocket.  
John looked like he was more in need of the chair than him. 

'I want this to be clear: this isn't me forgiving you, this is me being a doctor. And don't think I'm going to apologise for punching you. I had every right to do so, and more,' John said as he finished applying a plaster on his cheek.

Sherlock thought that John had been justified so he didn't answer and only nodded. John didn't complain about him moving his head yet again. He was staring at him and Sherlock wished he could see his own face because whatever expression he wore made John frown. He had more lines between his eyes. He must have been frowning a lot the past year. Sherlock's right fingers twitched, itching to smooth out the deep marks.  
They would never be separated like this again.  
One day – the later possible – John's ghost would come to visit him again, and this time he would join him.


End file.
